“No. Oh God, no you wouldn’t. Really. Armani, please.”
Dropping into the chair across from me, he reaches over the desk and takes my hand.
Slipping my hand into his, he leans close to look into my eyes.
“Look,” he says, his voice softening, “I know you’ve only been here a few weeks, but I’ve done a poor job getting to know you as well as I wanted. I’d like to work on that, but toreallyknow you, I need to meet your family, too.”
He leans over and kisses me, and my pulse picks up as a rush of heat floods my veins. He always has this effect on me, damn him. When he pulls away my eyes flutter open, and I find him looking at me expectantly.
“Let’s get something on the calendar this weekend,” he presses. “And don’t worry—I’m sure I can handle them. I know a thing or two about difficult families. How bad can it be?”
With a forced smile, I give him a tense nod of agreement.
How bad can it be?
He’s about to find out.
17
CANDI
When I calledmy mom to ask if I could bring my new boyfriend over for dinner, she initially said the family had plans (a blatant lie if I ever heard one). But after I casually mentioned who he is, their “schedule” miraculously cleared. The Bellanti name certainly has an effect on people.
I really hope I don’t regret this.
What bugs me most about the whole thing is the way Armani’s insistence on meeting my family came out of left field. For some reason, he’s hell-bent on getting to know the rest of the Gallaghers, when he never even so much as asked me their names before. It makes no sense. And it sure as hell won’t be a picnic—Dad is gruff and reticent, Mom spends most of her energy faking a chipper attitude to cover for him, and my brothers…don’t get me started on them.
There isn’t a bone in my body that wants to return to my childhood home. I rarely talk to my parents or my brothers, and they hardly ever reach out to me either. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve spoken to my mom in the past year. Truthfully, the distance seems to work out just fine for all of us. As for me, I know I’m a better person having separated myself from them. Before I moved out for college, I didn’t know what confidence was or that I was allowed to voice my own opinions. Now I have to dive headfirst back into that madness. At least I’ll have Armani at my side. Although I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.
Hopefully this little get-together will satisfy whatever niggling curiosity he has about my roots, and we’ll never have to go through another visit like this again.
It’s just over a twenty-minute drive southeast to my parents’ house, and I can feel my palms getting sweatier by the second as we transition from the lush green hills of the Napa Valley wineries to the suburbs. When we pass the outlet mall and turn into the housing development where I grew up, my anxiety spikes fast.
Most of the houses in our neighborhood—comprised of small ranch-style homes built in the 1940s—began to change when I was a freshman in high school. One by one, the single-story residences were either torn down and replaced by larger, more modern floorplans, or else completely remodeled. Meanwhile, I watched out of our cracked and leaking windows as the street slowly transformed from a rundown subdivision into an up-and-coming, gentrified neighborhood with curb appeal to spare. The houses around us blossomed, but our dilapidated three-bedroom (four, if you count the illegal bedroom in the garage where my oldest brothers slept) continued to rot. I’m not even sure how my parents managed to de-annex themselves from the homeowners’ association that formed to rehab the neighborhood. But they did. Unless…
As we pull up to the curb, any last shred of hope vanishes. Nothing’s changed. The house I grew up in is squat and shabby, with peeling pale blue clapboards, mostly dead grass, and roof shingles that are curled and mossy at the corners. The rickety chain-link fence around the property is half fallen over and a collection of rusted-out, cobwebbed old cars and broken furniture and household appliances crowd the driveway. Yup. Just like I remember it.
This place is a fucking disgrace, and a part of me wishes the HOA had forced us out, razed the place, and cleaned it up like the stain that it is.
I glance over at Armani, but if he’s shocked by the condition of the house, he doesn’t show it as he puts his luxury SUV in park.
“Home, sweet home.” I let out a tense breath, then start babbling self-consciously. “My dad was never one for renovations. I’m sorry, I should have warned you. I mean, I know it’s obviously nothing like what you’re used to, but we never really had the money to—”
“Shh.” Armani hushes me and takes my hand. “It’s okay. Believe it or not, I know what it’s like, feeling powerless over the choices your parents make. How sometimes it’s like watching a dumpster fire you can’t put out.”
That has me laughing, though my throat is getting tight at the truth in his casual words. “Yeah. Dumpster fire is about right.”
“You had as much control as a child as I did, living under my father’s thumb. On the outside, we had that big house and a shit ton of money and all the luxuries therein. But behind those walls, it was a rotten place to grow up. So don’t worry that I’m judging you. And don’t ever apologize for your past.”
Stubbornly, I blink back the tears welling up. I can’t afford to be emotional right now. My dad will pick up on that like blood in the water. I nod, take a deep breath, and get out of the car. Armani comes around to take my hand, the bottle of Bellanti cabernet that he insisted on bringing here in his other hand, and we walk as a united front up the crumbling walkway. When we reach the front door, I see it has the same slightly crooked, duct tape patched screen door that graced this house when I lived here so many years ago. Not the best omen.
“Shall I do the honors?” Armani asks lightly, raising a finger toward the doorbell.
Before I can tell him the bell is broken, my mom surprises the hell out of me by pulling the interior door open and barreling out to meet us, holding out her arms as if I’m her long-lost favorite child. It takes me a second to realize she’s waiting for me to hug her. She’s wearing a pair of frosted jeans that have probably been in the back of her closet since the 90s, and a collared blouse that I recognize as her go-to “fancy” dinner apparel.
“Cassandra! It’s been far too long,” she croons.
I wince at her use of my proper name, one I share with her. She pulls me into an exuberant hug as I stand like a stiff, broken doll. I give her a rudimentary pat on the back and pull out of her embrace. She doesn’t seem to notice, already turning her attention to Armani.
